


The Dark Blue One

by atrickstertype



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-24
Updated: 2012-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-31 15:58:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atrickstertype/pseuds/atrickstertype
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock receives his favorite scarf.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dark Blue One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andthebluestblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthebluestblue/gifts).



> A fic for my friend thebluestblue, who wouldn't let me have it betad. He asked for a story about Sherlock’s favorite scarf, POV optional, and I took him at his word.

The scarf is the same kind that John’s father wore.

(Sherlock knows this from a faded photo John keeps in his wallet, as he knows that John’s father was a businessman, and not a very successful one at that, judging from the traces of an accent which suggest John spent his young life in a rather dingy block of the East End. From that location and John’s attitude towards travel he can tell that the man must have worked in a certain business park near Hoxton Hall, and at that time the only not-yet-successful business would have been Eiderly Imports, which folded in 1975, John would have been four at the time of the suicide, alcoholic mother… No. No this was not what he was focusing on, store it away, come back to it when it’s pertinent.)

It is just barely posh enough to make it impressive, but understated, the soft cashmere a deep shade of blue.

(It would have been an extravagance for the family, a part of the necessary costume for work, something he only wore when attempting to impress a customer, and the children would have wanted to touch it because they couldn’t, sticky fingers on the expensive material, but they had stolen it, or something like it, once, just to see, and Sherlock can see this in the way John is careful about washing his hands, about his clothing, about the casual appreciation that is something more vital than the taught habit of cleaning uniform buttons or brushing down shoes.)

It’s Burberry, authentic but unpatterned, a rare thing indeed.

(John will know that, but only vaguely as a good thing, moreover he thinks that it will suit Sherlock, color and length, that it will replace the old one he has been using for ages, perhaps John’s checked the labels to see what Sherlock prefers, seen that his scarf is worn thin in some places, carefully concealed, thought that it could use replacing, not a chance that he’s caught on to how old, how worn, the fact that it has value beyond practicality because John is sure that Sherlock has no concept of sentimental value and Sherlock is determined to see that it stays that way.)

He unfolds it from the box, wrapping paper falling off of his lap.

(Blue with white snowflakes, no hint of the holiday merely the season and John has always loved snow, as rare as it is in London, but Sherlock watches as the man’s mouth quirks during the holiday episodes of Doctor Who and it is almost wistful, and Sherlock wonders if John has ever seen snow on Christmas and wonders why he cares and whether John’s aware that the wrapping paper matches the third shade in that awful jumper and the fourth in Sherlock’s eyes or if John is simply that thick.)

It’s slightly shorter than he expected.

(Most Burberrys are long and thin, meant to be wrapped around loosely, but this is exactly the length Sherlock prefers, serviceable and not in the way, and either John has had help picking things out or he has begun to really /notice/ and Sherlock can not decide whether to feel pride or fear or anything at all.)

“Do you like it?” John asks, leaning forward in his chair.

(Fixed attention but rapid eye movement, nervous, excited, trying to gauge reaction without knowing the proper signs to look for, slightly more expensive yet still horrible jumper for the party later, hair already combed, hasn’t eaten, rested from the day off work, plans to drink, date coming over, casual but sixth date, slept together on two, four, and five, good prospects for tonight, she cheats on her taxes.)

“Yes,” Sherlock says, holding it to the light.

(Shop girl had eczema, treated it with a high end cream, John has gone out of his way to find this, to the shopping district on the other side of Bart’s, well outside of his usual price range especially for a scarf, would have made him uncomfortable shopping in those boutiques, but thoughtful since he knows that Sherlock favors them, may have asked the shop girl for recommendations, she got the wrong idea, he flushed but didn’t bother to correct and followed behind as she led him to the display, worried about the lack of price tag but decided to get it anyway and this is why they haven’t had jam or milk for the last three weeks.)

“Of course, you’d guessed what it was,” John’s smile is higher on the left than the right.

(Self deprecating but genuinely pleased, looking for more positive reinforcement, look at the head tilt, the hands, the curve of the back, he’s enjoying this, giving things is important to him, of course it is, why else exchange gifts before the party, put so much thought into a scarf, John is good at giving things, enjoys it, prides himself on a good reception.)

“I hadn’t,” Sherlock admits and John’s eyes widen, slightly.

(He has known in advance every present given to him since he was seven, has considered it at first a game and then a matter of course to find out every surprise Mycroft and Mummy have planned well before it can be put into effect, and John cannot possibly know how shocking he is, how unexpected in the most mundane of moments.)

John’s smile widens. “Picked it out myself. I saw that your old one was getting a bit worn.”

(Worn is an understatement, it’s practically sheer, and he knows John can not see the stains, the various fluids of fifteen years, the few crumbs or the blood or the sweat, the dirt of the floors of empty rooms, the not-yet-dry lacquer from a refurbished chair, the salt and water and protein, the traces of his college years, the faintest hints of his father.)

“Your taste is improving,” Sherlock says, folding the scarf in half and looping it casually around his neck.

John’s eyes dilate and he says “It suits you” and Sherlock hopes that he doesn’t notice anything at all.


End file.
